Storm of Terror
by Lemona1d
Summary: Nylaria was once a Watcher under the powerful and stalwart champion of the night elves, Maiev Shadowsong. Now after the presumed death of her leader, Nylaria watches over the dreaded Tomb of Sargeras, vowing to protect it with her life lest the Legion should ever return - until one day Gul'dan sneaks into the Tomb and singlehandedly ushers in doom for all of Azeroth.
1. Chapter 1

_"Not all those who wander are lost."_

In the southern seas of Azeroth, hidden by miles and miles of uncharted nothingness, there rests a desiccated chain of small islands known only as the Broken Isles. The Broken Isles are renown for two things – their vastly desolate solitude, surrounded by grey clouds and stormy seas; and their crumbled ruins, ranging from fractured settlements that echo a long forgotten civilization to dreadful temples and tombs used by cultists for nefarious purposes.

What most others of the world fail to realize, however, is that the Broken Isles is actually home to a great many number of creatures and cultures, spanning frigid mountain ranges to thick forests to abundant shorelines. True, not many live on the isles – not many of those that are quite sane, at least – as the island's loneliness and loathsome reputation that predate it make it a hard sell for the typical good hearted fellow.

It's true, not much good comes from the Broken Isles. The residents there are quiet only in the sense that ongoing conflict stays on the isles, never spilling onto the main lands, masking the society and identity of thousands from the rest of the world for better or for worse. Not too many truly morally virtuous souls call the Broken Isles their home. Far across deep in to the north, Highmountain and their namesake tauren inhabitants live in harmony with their drogbar neighbors, and vrykul tribes of the Valajar make their home in the rocky peaks and valleys of Stormheim, but that's about as far as it goes for friendly faces. The Broken Isles are named that for a reason, as they are filled with anguished ghosts, territorial satyr, ever encroaching naga, and deadly wildlife untouched from the outside world for hundreds of thousands of years.

To some, such as the most studious scholars and the heartiest of explorers, the island chain is filled with adventure and promise – who will be the first to unravel the mystery of the lost night elf civilization fabled to reside on one of the islets that dot the seascape, a culture famous not for practicing the nature magic the elves are known for today, but for being wielders of destructive arcane powers that tore the world apart?

During Maiev Shadowsong's campaign through the Broken Isles to chase Illidan into the Tomb of Sargeras, she brought along with her a loyal crusade of sentinels and guardians to aid her in her crusade. Known as the Watchers and led by sentinel Naisha, they were jailers of the toughest and most ruthless criminals capture by the night elves, and they followed Maiev unquestioningly into the Tomb of Sargeras after the Betrayer, Illidan. The twisted half demon, half elf was on a quest to recover a wretched and awful artifact known only as the Eye of Sargeras, a demonic magical instrument of presumably unspeakable power. Unfortunately Maiev was unsuccessful is stopping Illidan from retrieving the Eye, who then used the powers of the device to bring down the massive cavern and crush Maiev and her sisters-in-arms inside, trapping her as she once did to him. The Warden made it out by the skin on her neck, but most - not all - of her soldiers never saw the light of day again.

One of the Watchers, a particularly devout and silent woman by the name of Nylaria, along with her group of adherents, failed to make it into the Tomb of Sargeras in tow of Maiev after Nylaria's unit was bushwhacked by a troop of Illidan's naga ilk. The tide of battle favored the elven company, and they forced their serpentine adversaries across the shore in a raging war of attrition that spanned much of an entire day and saw blood spilled on the shapely white sand dunes of the island, only to be washed away by the frothy waves that battered the shoreline.

Successful in their fight against Illidan's wretched forces, Nylaria and her band of sister's victory was short lived as they discovered the Tomb of Sargeras had been flawlessly obliterated from the inside-out in their absence, trapping Maiev and the rest of the Watchers inside, presumably dooming them by burying them alive. Bloodied and beaten, the night elven party that remained decided to return home to Darnassus on the mainland after considering the mission a failure. And so they left the Broken Isles behind, vowing never to return to such a heinous place so long as they lived - all of them except Nylaria.

Nylaria made the decision to stay on the island, refusing to return home, believing she owed it to herself that she remained loyal to her leader in Maiev regardless of whether or not she still lived. She would fulfill the ultimate duty of the Watcher mantra, keeping eye over a great evil; the evil that was the Broken Isles. It would be her home, her burden, her finally resting place if it ever came to it. Her sisters were given careful instructions to spread the word that Nylaria the Tempest, Watcher of Maiev, was now the guardian of a wretched and primal force, one beside itself in malevolence, and that she only lived on in legend now.

What Nylaria failed to realize, however, was that the miniature islet her, Maiev, and the other Watchers had landed on in search of the Tomb of Sargeras – a piece of land called Thal'dranath that would many years later be staked as the Broken Shore – was merely a fraction of what the Broken Isles had to offer. First the lonely and derelict land she now called home was in fact a twisted, distorted fragment of Suramar, the ancient origin of all night elf culture including none other than Illidan and Maiev themselves. The city of Suramar was thought to have been destroyed thousands of years ago, believed to have been obliterated by the Great Sundering, now just debris resting on the ocean floor. Thal'dranath itself along with the Tomb of Sargeras had been raised from the sea by the late, terrible warlock Gul'dan who sought to appease his demonic masters in the Burning Legion.

Alongside Thal'dranath being a small part of ancient Suramar, the Broken Isles offered much, much more than Nylaria could have ever foreseen. Deep across the north in Highmountain, an ancient tauren tribe by the same name lived in peace and harmony, far from the outside world as much as one would be in the frozen clutches of Northrend or the fabled misted Pandaria. Vrykul, typically vicious and seafaring denizens of the north, find their theological and spiritual home in Stormheim. The islands were even home to Val'sharah, the very origin of druidism itself, where the great Malfurion Stormrage once lived and was taught. All of these wondrous places and more were thought to have been utterly wiped off the face of the plant when the Great Sundering took place, or simply had never been discovered by the outside world before. However, Nylaria would not discover these places for many years, believing at the start of her journey it was just her, the ocean, and the tomb, for as long as she remained on this earth.

Approximately ten years have passed by since Nylaria came to the Broken Isles alongside Maiev, Naisha, and the others. Or was it been eleven? It was difficult to keep any semblance of orderly time in this wretched place, as often times the sun would be swallowed for days on end by grainy grey clouds and sea squalls the size of which would put night elven tree homes to shame. Nylaria had survived the harsh darkness of the island in good standing, thanks in part to her undying warrior spirit, and in part to what little hospitality a place only known as "Broken" can possibly offer.

Eventually Nylaria would dare to leave the Tomb of Sargeras behind and begin exploring the surrounding island nation around her. She found night elf allies - sisters - in the mystic groves of Val'sharah, making an effort to visit at least once every fortnight to keep both her body and her mind in good balance. Nylaria would also climb the steepest peaks of Highmountain and be at peace with the ancient Tauren tribes that live atop the mountainsides, and spar with the honorable vrykul of the rocky and squall-infested lands of Stormheim. Still yet, Nylaria would leave the friendly faces of the Broken Isles behind, and return to the shore to watch over Tomb of Sargeras, chaining herself to her duty.

Life on the Broken Isles has changed Nylaria immensely - all for the better, even, strange as it may seem. When your entire life is spent on a shell that was once a great paradise, there are very few things you can do; hunt, eat, sleep, and if you're a night elf, pray. And if you're a night elf that spends most of your life surrounded by nightfall, you get a lot of time to pray. Though the nights on the Broken Isles fluctuated as rapidly as the tides, ranging from quiet and serene to just damn rattling, it was nighttime nonetheless, and it meant Nylaria had access to hours upon hours of uninterrupted communion with her goddess of the night, Elune.

Over the years, Nylaria's relationship with her great deity had evolved immensely. Of course, being centuries old at this point, the night elf had already developed a deep spiritual connection with her goddess Elune. But spending hundreds of nights in a row enveloped in the rope-like tendrils of inky black night brought Nylaria into enlightenment. She took control of her indomitable spirit, hero's training and natural penchant for the art of wielding arcane magics, and elevated herself from simple Warden to something more.

With the power of her night goddess, Nylaria has developed the enigmatic ability to conjure a fully functioning bow made out of ethereal moonlight that summons shafts of sharp arcane magic whenever she knocks the string. No more would Nylaria have to rely on faulty, manmade weapons or worry of exhausting a supply of finite ammunition to hunt her enemies Warden style. With the flick of a wrist and the will of thought she could call forth the power of the stars in her hands to smite and obliterate any unfortunate mortal soul that dared to stand in her way.


	2. Chapter 2

It was night time in the southern hemisphere of Azeroth. The skies above the Broken Isles were vaguely clear which was a step above the typically drab and dreary skyline that often blanketed the sea. Prowling through the barren white sand dunes of Thal'dranath was a slender feminine figure, long hair bedraggled and wild, violet toned body glistening in the moonlight from salty seawater. She ambled over shifting hills of sand and dried dune grass until the shoreline evened out and transformed into a chunky thicket of green woods. The night elf, her pale purple skin shining in the open air, approached the bent boughs of a rather tall sapling from which hung her very few possessions.

Nylaria had over the years figured out a way to conceal herself by tying animal pelts to long strips of aged and dried out leather, then draping them over her body. The overabundance of wildlife, occasional blistering daytime sun and need to protect herself from the elements had taught Nylaria a great many things about survival. Though crude and barely a real substitute, Nylaria managed to cover just enough of her body to matter. The makeshift outfit was scant and loose-fitting, to be sure, but the nonrestrictive "clothing" gave Nylaria the opportunity to match the wildlife of the island, and allowed her body to breathe during quarrels with the less friendly neighbors, such as tribes of naga or the errant hydra. Like Nylaria, her clothes were overwhelmingly unassuming but did their job better than any counterpart ever could.

While Nylaria stood underneath the broad canopy of leaves, her bright eyes shifted towards the massive night elven ruins that had stood towering above the miniature island with unwavering certainty - the Tomb of Sargeras. It was an unholy place where many good soldiers - sisters - lost their lives violently and tragically by the hands of Illidan the Betrayer. Although it was now a crumbling mess years after the half demon attempted to bring it down in a heinous act of brutality, the tomb was still kept alive by strange and foul magic. For many months Nylaria was haunted by the savage and inhuman loss of her sisters, but over time those thoughts were slowly relegated to her dreams, simply plaguing her in her sleep instead of nearly every waking moment.

Coming back to her senses after having been gripped by dark memories for a brief moment, Nylaria soon realized something was off. The feeling in the air had tilted. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled and stood on end. She suddenly felt naked and vulnerable, the sensation that overwhelms prey in the moments before the predator strikes. But this was something more.

Nylaria felt dazed and disoriented, like she was been watched from all possible angles, being studied, figured out, dissected. As a warrior it was the worst feeling imaginable. The night elf swallowed an uneasy lump in her throat and sprang forward leaving the weald behind her. Perhaps she had unwittingly encroached upon the lair of some unseen beast, lurking just underneath the shadows, and it had put the girl under its cross-hairs.

But Nylaria had come across ferocious monsters before, and this was something else entirely. As the night elf's feet found a stumbling, tittering path to the beach, Nylaria could feel herself being dragged towards the Tomb, ripped away from the safety of the beachhead. Something was happening. Something was coming. The night elf unceremoniously lumbered across the sand dunes, and she kept her eye on the massive Tomb of Sargeras that eclipsed the shoreline. Drawing closer and closer to the cursed tower, ever destined to loom over the shores of Thal'dranath, Nylaria began to feel an empty feeling inside of her stomach, the kind that makes one's heart sink and their pulse start to race. The elf began to experience a sensation that she never thought would befall her again - the feeling of trembling fear and paralyzing awe at the same time. A foul taste started to overwhelm Nylaria mouth, that of sweetness and fire.

An unwavering blast of heat. A gut-rumbling tremor. The sound of crumbling rocks and clashing magic trumpeted in the distance. Something was happening at the Tomb of Sargeras. But how?

The Tomb of Sargeras had been defunct for at least a decade, if not more. To Nylaria's knowledge not a single mortal creature had entered or escaped alike from the Tomb since the night Illidan the Betrayer had tried to murder Maiev Shadowsong in cold blood. Had she failed her duty so wholly and horrifically?

A roar pierced the heavens so loudly it caused Nylaria to halt dead in her tracks. An enormous green line of chaotic magic appeared and split through the thick night air like lightning, seemingly unable to be stopped. Suddenly the sky was illuminated by hideous green magic and fel energies, putting great distress onto the planet almost immediately. Nylaria clenched her fists tightly and made a mad dash to the shoreline, swiftly diving underneath the shallow waves in an attempt to go undetected.

Nylaria struggled to comprehend just what could have possible made this a reality. The night elf woman feared the worst for her safety as her thoughts raced yet her mind was numb. The absolute unthinkable was happening right in front of her. The Legion was coming back.

From just under the surface of the bumpy waves, her loose straps of furs and leather nearly drifting away, Nylaria watched with horror the events that unfolded in front of her eyes. The very peak of the Tomb of Sargeras lit up like a beacon, beckoning to it swathes of demons as moths to a flame. The bright midnight moon was blotted out as literal chaos rained down from above, rocky demons plummeting to the ground and winged creatures screaming into existence, obscuring the night sky like swarms of locusts.

Gargantuan swirling magic portals appeared on the ground as if out of thin air, ushering in bevies of demonic foot soldiers and cannon fodder. They clamored across the craggy ridges of Thal'dranath with ease, whooping and hollering as they marched forward with their footsteps like drums of war droning in the air. Meanwhile, imps chattered relentlessly as they brought forth hellish fires, felguards grunted as they hoisted their over-sized weaponry, and succubi cracked their whips as the brazen demonesses barked commands to the others.

More demons yet spilled forth from the Tomb of Sargeras itself, the source of this waking nightmare.

All of these grisly images and much more rippled above the surface of the waves like a dream, Nylaria's eyesight distorted from being submerged in water. Nylaria held her breath and dove deep beneath the sea vigorously paddling away from the horrific sight in front of her towards safety.

The night elf's head spun sickeningly. She attempted to desperately figure out where she had gone wrong, what could have been done to prevent this, why she had wavered when it mattered most - but came up short every time. It began to tear cracks in her heart.

It wasn't until Nylaria's lungs ran dry of oxygen did she finally come ashore, hiding beneath a stocky thicket of trees that could barely withstand the heat hanging in the air at the moment from the demonic incursion. As Nylaria caught her breath, resting a hand on the bark of a thin sapling, she wiped her brow and gazed at the destruction that played out before her eyes across the way on the shore. The woman planted the wrist of her free hand against her forehead, leaning into her palm. Her body began to shake from the stress.

The sky above the earth darkened considerably, ironic considering how the night now glowered with demonic fel fire. Bright, glowing green lava poured freely from the Tomb of Sargeras, making a beeline down to the shore and turning the earth a sickly dark color. Short meaty demons with hunchbacks and mechanical limbs began heralding in ghastly demonic machinery and constructing magnificent stone structures that rose to completion in seconds thanks to demon magics. Although Nylaria was hidden from sight for now there was no shadow of a doubt she needed to move now, or risk trying to escape from the clutches of the Burning Legion.

Nylaria's allies were her first thought as the woman raced across the shoreline deeper towards the Broken Isles inner mainland. To be honest, she wasn't sure just what she was looking to accomplish by leaving the Tomb of Sargeras, as it's not as if she could suddenly rattle up an entire army and eliminate the greatest threat ever known to the living universe at the drop of a hat. Nylaria's steaming warrior blood urged her to take up arms and throw herself at the Burning Legion - after all, that's precisely while she exiled herself to the Broken Isles for more than a decade, to keep watch on the Legion. After all, she had failed Azeroth by allowing the Legion into her home.

The night elf was smart enough to not fall into such a trap, or at least her discipline had been honed enough to trick herself into thinking so, and she retreated from the area. Although she wasn't able to see much from her position before on the beach, it was hilariously clear to Nylaria that these Legion forces were not to be lightly trifled with. She would need a tremendous amount of help to contain this threat successfully, if at all.

Nylaria kicked up sand while she raced across the beach dunes that crested the shoreline of Thal'dranath. Bright arcane light began to wrap itself around the woman's ankles. Her steps became literally light as a feather and her feet stopped touching the ground entirely. Nylaria tread through the air as if she were a hot knife gliding through butter, hair whipping behind her back as she gained momentum. Soon the night elf was racing over the waves themselves, making literal bounds and strides over the ocean, leaving the impending destruction behind her.

To the far west where Nylaria was heading, separated from Thal'dranath by a narrow wedge of ocean, awaited Azsuna.*The salty sea air thrashed at Nylaria's sharp and weathered face, stinging her eyes while she raced across the waves with the help of her strange and arcane magic. To the sea, there was nothing momentous about this night - it didn't care about Nylaria's troubling plight or the unstoppable crusade of the Legion. It remained as bitter and wild as always, brutally uncaring, blissfully unaware of the troubles that beget mortal races.


	3. Chapter 3

Nylaria wielded the power of her moon goddess Elune to race across the choppy waves of the Broken Isles, using ethereal magic to propel herself across the ocean and head west to the crumbled land of Azsuna. There, Nylaria planned to seek out what few friendly faces remained in the ruins of the night elf civilization, and warn them of the terrifying threat looming about from the beachhead around the Tomb of Sargeras.

The air began to grow heavy with a thick purple glow, heralding Nylaria's arrival to the ley-drunk lands of Azsuna. The region was called home by the original masters of magic, the Blue Dragonflight, as well as the Nightfallen, night elves who survived the destruction of their homeland of original Kalimdor at the wrath of the Shattering, by turning to siphoning pure magic to keep themselves alive without the aid of their now obliterated Well of Eternity. It was here in Azsuna that Nylaria planned - or, at least, hoped - to find a friendly enough face that would know the right measures to employ during these drastic times. Nylaria forfeited to keeping her confidence in check; a broken brood of dragons and a once noble people fallen into disgrace did not make for high expectations.

To the right of Nylaria, the woman saw frothing waves crashing against crushed colonnades and falling apart platforms while she skipped across the ocean in large, bounding strides. The grey concrete once indicative of a great city now pathetically piled up on the bright colored shore now completely beyond disrepair with wildlife calling it home. To the left, Nylaria witnessed pink and orange rays of sunlight lashing out at the waves of the Great Sea, bringing morning to Azeroth. Thin clouds hung in the air while gulls dove into the seawater to scoop up their first meal for the day.

With a tilt of the hips, Nylaria twisted her body and started skidding into a slow stop. The thrumming esoteric magic around the woman's ankles buzzed dully before dissipating entirely, dropping Nylaria into knee-deep waters. She urgently waded onto the hot sandy shore without bothering to stop and dry herself or her meager outfit. She found herself at the entrance to a gaping cavern the sucked in water from the sea, beset on both sides by miniature islets. The sound of gently lapping waves filled her shrewd ears. The mid-morning sun hanging high above the clouds brought some much welcome warmth to the Broken Isles.

Off to the side of where Nylaria stood a broad rocky outcropping jutted out into the sea on top of which rested a once holy palace ironically known as the Temple of a Thousand Lights, a now derelict night elf place of worship. The temple grounds are currently home to nothing but writhing, angry spirits that would surely lash out at the very sight of an intruder. Dead ahead of Nylaria awaited a lengthy alcove occupied by sleeping sea beasts that were best left unaroused. Nylaria's closest living allies, the night elf druids of Val'sharah, were at least a day's travel away. She would have to settle for whatever Azsuna had to offer.

Azsuna may not have been Nylaria's first choice, this part was true. It was a land filled with distraught and once noble Nightfallen, night elf spirits cursed into undeath by Azshara and the always finicky Blue Dragonflight. Nylaria knew her options were limited in this time of need, but she was determined to find someone, or something, to aid in her plight. Time was running out for Nylaria, and as of yet, this damned place was her best option.

Nylaria found a steep, unsteady path that lead from the coast to inland Azsuna. She used her expertise as a Watcher to swiftly hop up the crumbling rockside, although she nearly lost her footing more than once. Once at the top Nylaria found herself surrounded by the sprawling and surprisingly green world of Azsuna. The region was nearly cut in half by rivers that flowed in from the sea, and everywhere one looked were the crumpled remains of night elf ruins and winding pathways that criss crossed the verdant region. Nylaria began to head northbound towards the Nar'thalas Academy, in search of the fallen Prince Farondis.

Suddenly, a churning pool of dark magic swirled in the air and materialized into a tall, hooded figure. The brooding man was draped in a heavy cloak and he held tightly in one hand a gnarly wooden staff which clutched a dark shimmering gemstone at the point. With a huff, the man pulled off his cowl and shook his head revealing tapered fangs, a pair of keen ears and a shaggy soot colored mane. His deceptively tall and burly physique was concealed by free-flowing robes that seemed to bleed shadows as he stood still. The worgen shook like he was coming down from a buzz, his staff's black crystal jewel gleaming. "Is it true?" he barked. "Has the Legion truly returned?"

Nylaria stood in disbelief as the stranger growled at her. The worgen reeked of ash and demons, yet his intentions didn't appear to include causing her harm. Even still, Nylaria could take no chances. Her hand began glowing with a warm and purplish energy with crackling magic weaving itself in between the woman's slender fingers. "It is true that the Legion walks on Azeroth once more. I have seen it with my own eyes," Nylaria replied. She eyed the worgen cautiously. Having spent over a decade living off the Broken Isles, the night elf was more than wary of any stranger.

"Put down your magics, woman. I'm not here to pick fights," the worgen gruffly said, waving his hand dismissively. "Believe me, I am no fan of the Legion. I come to lend aid." He bent to the ground and pressed his canine snout close to the dirt, sniffing repeatedly.

Letting her guard down briefly, Nylaria tilted her head and watched the worgen with a bit of amusement. "No Legion here yet," the stocky man mumbled out loud. Then Ciar stood up straight and, like a gentleman, the worgen extended a clawed hand at the night elf woman and lowered his head. "My apologies, I shouldn't let impending apocalypses get in the way of proper manners. Ciar Felwraith." Ciar pronounced his name with a harsh K sound, like the word "key."

Nylaria put her garish magic away and decisively received the handshake in good standing. "Nylaria. It's good to have friends in a land like this. Though, you'll truly have to explain just why you'd willingly come to a place like this."

Producing a gruff laugh from the base of his throat, Ciar responded, "'Willingly' is a bit of a stretch. I'm here at my own behest to assess the situation. A summoning of demons that enormous... even an apprentice on his first day could feel in his bones magic that strong. Every warlock on Azeroth is now aware of the Legion's coming, for better or for worse. You could say I've taken some initiative to check and see if things are just as bad as I feared."

"And is it?" Nylaria hesitantly asked once a few moments had passed.

Ciar Felwraith turned and looked the night elf in the eyes. "It's worse."


	4. Chapter 4

Nylaria could feel beads of sweat beginning to dot her forehead. "How could it be worse?" She asked a bit aggressively. "Worse how? Worse than the War of the Ancients?" To the night elf's chagrin, Ciar turned and started stepping away from her.

"It is complicated," the worgen muttered. "The Burning Legion are utilizing demons the likes of which this planet has yet to have seen before. They're doing well to mask themselves from being detected through traditional methods, but any warlock worth his salt would have felt such a great disturbance plaguing the Nether. This isn't some sort of scouting party, oh no. This is a real invasion. The Legion is ready for war."

Clenching her fist tightly, Nylaria said, "What of us, then? We've repelled the Legion more than once in the past before. What must we do to prevent this war?"

Ciar continued walking away, shaking his head as he used his soot-colored staff as a walking stick. "I'm afraid it's not that simple," the worgen called out over his shoulder as he wandered the roads of Azsune. "You misunderstand me then, if you believe this is a simple thing to brush off." As Ciar shuffled down a cobbled path Nylaria jaunted behind him to keep up. "Imagine the brute force of the War of the Ancients combined with the most ruthless tacticians this universe has to offer. The full might of the Legion's forces led by the most brilliant and sadistic minds. A thousand different battle plans, points of invasion, theaters of war."

A stale breeze wafted over the two of them, carrying with it the scent of salty seawater. Nylaria was too distracted by Ciar's words to pay attention to where they were heading. "It does not matter," Nylaria retorted. "Azeroth always finds a way. We always do."

Suddenly Nylaria stopped, kicking up dust. "Why do you keep walking away? I'm trying to have an urgent conversation, here." Then the night elf stopped and her eyes widened somewhat. She and Ciar were standing at the edge of a cliff-side that over looked a enormous pit. The chasm glowed with a near violent purple light, with steaming energy literally emanating from beneath the earth. Radiant violet crystal of all shapes and sizes jutted out from the ground. It was as if raw magic itself had carved a path through the earth, leaving behind an open wound.

Nylaria's eyes twinkled at the grand sight before her. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Indeed it is," Ciar gruffly responded. "A leyline in the flesh. The very essence of arcane power made manifest." The warlock held out his staff and pointed the jewel atop of the cane downwards. The glittering black gem began to glint brightly as it drew in power directly from the leyline. Ciar's unoccupied hand began to glower with a dancing green flame which sucked in all the heat near it, leaving the surrounding air eerily cold. Nylaria stepped backwards to give the worgen breathing room.

The jet black crystal upon Ciar's staff began to harbor a swirling mist of potent energy. The entire gem started vibrating intensely. Then, a resounding voice beckoned from the crystal.

"What do you want?" the voice said, moderately annoyed.

"Essowrod," Ciar responded exasperatedly. "I'm not particularly in the mood for games right now."

A bright green eye popped up inside the jewel on Ciar's staff, blinking a few times. "No time? Preposterous! What else would a loaf like you be doing with your time?" the voice known as Essowrod said. "Also, tell that elf friend of yours I said 'hello.'"

Ciar could only sigh. "Essowrod," the worgen repeated, "I know very well that you're aware of our current situation at the moment. And she can hear you, by the way.

"I know," Essowrod replied slyly, winking an eye. Nylaria shook her head.

"I need a summoning," Ciar said down to his staff. "I need my pets. Get them here safely. Do not dawdle, Essowrod." In the vast distance vile green fire began to spread across the sky above the Tomb of Sargeras back at Thal'dranath.

Behind Ciar a summoning circle began to grow, expanding in size over a few seconds. Burning demonic runes emblazoned themselves into the earth etching words of power on the dirt to channel dark energies. "Very well," Essowrod yelled from inside Ciar's staff jewel, loud noise now nearly obscuring his voice. "Garbhan and the rest have engaged Legion forces. You were right to rush."

Ciar replied, "I know," parroting Essowrod. The large eye occupying the crystal on top Ciar's staff rolled sarcastically. Then the gem went dormant. The summoning circle flared up to full power and glimmered brightly with shining jade-colored magic. Ciar spun his staff in his hand before touching the energy laden crystal to the center of the summoning circle. " **Kirel narak!** " the warlock announced.

A churning, bubbling whirlpool of chaotic fel energy cut a hole through reality a foot or so above the summoning portal. Then, very unceremoniously two canine creatures dropped to the ground with a thud. The portal above them snapped shut loudly and the summoning circle faded into nonexistence. Left behind were two incredibly odd shaped demons that walked on all fours with cloven feet and a slew of dangling tendrils that extruded from the back of their heads, which were eyeless and resembled skulls. One was sharp red while, the other matte black.

"My boys," Ciar called proudly, kneeling and extending his arms. The demons yelped happily and bounded up to their master, circling the worgen while bouncing around.

Nylaria made a noise. "You warlocks are a strange breed," she commented.

Ciar waved his staff in front of the friendly demons coaxing a few playful snarls from the beasts. "They do more than just play tricks," the worgen responded. "They're hear for a reason."

Raising her eyebrow Nylaria simply kept a respectable distance. "Then what is it you plan on doing with these... things?" the night elf inquired.

"We're going on a hunt," Ciar responded vaguely. He reached down and stuck an entire hand inside his loose robes, the fabric turning into inky goop as he did so. The warlock pulled out a handful of reagents - an imp wing, a hoof, some ash - and threw in directly in the dirt which exploded with a surprising bang. A vaporous cloud appeared, wriggling as if being bent by a breeze. "Lich-Hunt," Ciar beckoned as he turned strawberry shaded demon companion. "Sic 'em."


	5. Chapter 5

With haste the demon hound known as Lich-Hunt bounded away with a burst of speed, yelping and drooling along the way. Nylaria, Garbhan and his remaining summoned companion followed swiftly behind. The demonic hound headed south back towards the ocean with impunity. trekking across the bumpy roads of Azsuna while chasing the mysterious cloud of vapor at a rapidly increasing pace.

"Where could we possibly be heading?" hollered Nylaria as she struggled to keep up with the demon's hasty and erratic decision making.

Garbhan hauled himself alongside his demon companion with extreme ease. "We're going to track down a Legion agent," the worgen clarified, "extract information." Nylaria and the other as of yet unnamed felhound trailed behind Ciar and his pet Lich-Hunt. "We will gain information about the Legion's intentions no matter what it takes. I am fully prepared to spend hours interrogating demons. Days, if I must."

Hearing Ciar's words, Nylaria couldn't help but respect the warlock's steadfastness and tenacity when it came to his craft. She didn't trust demons in the absolute slightest, that was still true, but she was nonetheless impressed by the sacrifices Ciar was clearly ready to make.

Nylaria returned, "How do you suppose we'll find a member of the Legion who will be willing to talk? Surely it cannot be easy."

"No," responded Ciar as he nearly tripped over his own feet when Lich-Hunt took a sharp and sudden turn, "but we will hunt down the filthy wretches until we find what we-"

A shrill shriek rang out. It was a vile noise, like glass shattering on the ground. Nylaria and Ciar turned just in time to witness a cloud of felbats honing in on their location, hideous demonic creatures with four spindly limbs and enormous wingspans. The felbats screeched loudly and spat corrosive spittle that flew for many leagues across, splattering the ground with sizzling acid.

Unblinking, Nylaria turned her eyes to the sky as her hands began thrumming with sharp arcane magic. "Ciar, we have company." She winked an eye shut, sizing up the opposition - at least a dozen felbats, if not more, their wiry yet muscled bodies writhing through the air chaotically. Nylaria put her hands together and knocked an ethereal arrow, letting it loose into the air like a mighty ballista. It pierced through a score of the felbats and caused their hides to sizzle and burn, forcing the demons to the ground while they hissed in anger.

"I'm aware," Ciar responded from a few paces away. Nylaria released a few more arcane arrows into the sky before turning her head. From the west, a pair of frenetic and raving felguards came bounding towards Ciar with their weapons held high in the air.

One of the felguard roared, "This paltry world shall burn!" They each hoisted their demonic war-blades, dripping with fel magic, and charged at the exposed warlock.

Ciar started laughing. He continued laughing. In fact, the worgen's laughter was so hearty and genuine, he actually halted the demons advancing upon him. Then, Ciar said something demonic tongues and snapped his fingers.

Instantly, the felguard who had just spoke began howling in fear as his body began collapsing in on itself thanks to Ciar's vicious black magic. A miniature black hole formed within the pit of the demon's stomach, crumpling him from the inside out. Bones crunched and viscera sprayed until the towering demon disappeared from existence with a sickening ''pop.''

The remaining felguard nearly lost his composure but charged forth regardless. "Unlucky," Ciar observed. He waved his staff around like a baton and aimed it at the advancing demon. "Blightmaw," Ciar called out to his pet. His plum-colored compatriot stepped forward, tilting its head in amusement. "Get 'im, boy!"

The demon hound Blightmaw yowled in compliance and darted at the approaching felguard with surprising finesse. Blightmaw leaped into the air and sent itself crashing into the felguard, clamping down onto the brawny demon and releasing a fatal mixture of dark magic and fel poisons. The felguard roared mightily and batted at Blightmaw, but already its strength had faded. The demon had succumbed to just a fraction of the capabilities that Ciar's pet possessed. Ciar chuckled to himself, watching the felguard become gaunt and peaked as demonic venom coursed through its veins, before ultimately withering away into nothingness. Ciar's pet Blightmaw heeled by his side, casually tilting its head once more.

It was a bittersweet victory. Taking down a felguard as no easy feat - they were hulking, menacing, brutal footsoldiers of pure hate and tactical prowess. But there were millions more, if not billions. And that was just ''one'' type of demon. There were still imps and eredar and dreadlords and infernals and doom lords and pit lords and probably dozens of other types of demons, too. Not to mention of course the pesky little nuance of demons not ACTUALLY dying unless their soul is permanently destroyed within the confines of the Burning Legion; anything less will result in the perpetual regeneration of each and every demon allowing them to come alive once again and continue their wicked crusade for all of eternity.

These were minor dilemmas in the eyes of Ciar. He would find a way to put an end to the Burning Legion for good, no matter what the cost may be.

A sharp tugging in sensation in Ciar's gut pulled him out of his daydream. His other demon pet, Lich-Hunt, had found something.

Ciar turned and squinted his eyes, gazing across the horizon. During his fight with the felguards, Nylaria and Ciar's pet Lich-Hunt had split off and were nearing the very edge of Azsuna's borders, clearly following the trail of something. "Come," Ciar beckoned to his remaining companion, Blightmaw. The felstalker bounded up to its owner and sat obediently. Ciar tapped the jewel of his staff to the ground then uttered a word of power, and within seconds shadows whisked him away.


End file.
